


In seinen Armen (Erlkönig)

by Wallissa



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gothic Romance, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Supernatural Elements, abduction by the Fae, ominous descriptions of sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:06:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28225836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: Jack and Will get lost in the woods at night. And although Jack does his best to keep an eye on Will, there's a dark creature lurking in the shadow that stretches its branch-delicate claws out towards him.Blood-dripping chins and a cloak of night and fog, fangs and a voice whispering into the curls at the back of Will's neck.Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	In seinen Armen (Erlkönig)

Jack is, for all it’s worth, a realist. There’s no real point in wasting time and energy by worrying about possible worst-case scenarios when that time could be spend more effectively by doing something to _prevent_ said worst-case scenario from happening.  
But right now, even he would say that their situation isn’t ideal. 

Some minor inconveniences might be expected from an old car and the weather’s been cold and damp all day. So it’s not that he’s terribly surprised that there’s some hacking and oil-spilling going on, but the timing could’ve been better. Especially when the car has a very ill-inspired fainting spell and Will and him end up on the highway, sighing little clouds into the twilight.

From where they’re standing, it would only take them maybe thirty minutes to get to Will’s little hut by foot. But before they get to the clearing and within sight of it, they have to cross through the woods. It’s getting darker by the second and fog is seeping through the underbrush.

Jack’s a realist, but he has gut instincts, and he usually trusts them. The trees are bare, but their bony branches intertwine against the bruise-coloured sky and spill darkness between them. A cool wind whispers through the leaves and the sound carries to the car. Jack sighs, puts up his collar. 

He watches as Will picks up a flashlight from the glove department and reaches into his coat to slip the gun out of its holster. Neither will be of much use in the woods, but it’s more about the symbolism of the gesture, anyways. A promise of safety. 

They step off the asphalt, into the woods.  
It’s darker, the air colder. The night wraps around them like a physical thing.

Will should be familiar with the area and Jack knows at least the general direction of where they have to go. It’s not a long walk, not if they walk straight ahead, but with the low light and the fog rolling in, it’s harder to keep track of the little path they’re following. 

No need to worry about getting lost, but still. Not ideal. Jack weights his gun, its shape familiar and grounding in his palm. Silence spills between them and for a moment, he gets lot in his own thoughts, trying to tell one tree apart from the other. 

“Will?” He turns to find that the man has stayed behind a few steps, looking into the dim darkness of the forest. Jack turns and walks back to put one palm on Will’s shoulder. “You see anything?”

Will seems to wake from a daze. He blinks, his face pale in the first traces of cool moonlight. “Yes. Yes, I just – I thought I saw something between the bushes.”

“Probably a stag. It’s that time of the year and with the fog, you’re bound to see all kinds of things.” Jack has no real connection to the local wildlife but it sounds about right, doesn’t it? Time of the year, time of the night. Either way, his little smile has Will moving again, which is just as well.

_There’s something moving between the branches, a creature of fog and shadows._  
_A creature with clawed hands, with fingers like delicate branches and a crown of interwoven antlers. The scent of blackberries and a voice with an unreal tilt to it, silvery leaves._

_Will doesn’t mean to listen, but the voice is close, closer than he thought, whispering into the curls at the nape of his neck as the creature slips through the trees at the outskirt of his vision._

_Promises of pomegranate juice dripping from his lashes, drops of rubies on warm-black forest floors. Apple-sticky hands, blood under his fingernails. Black grapes and rose bushes with a velvet-sweet scent. His teeth sunk into a heart, its beat fluttering against his tongue. Bowls of silver and plates of glass, heaped with fruit and sticky with blood, spilling lemon zests and dripping with juice. Sweet, dark wine seeping into dark forest floors. Salt and honey, bones snapping between his teeth._

“Did you hear that?” Will’s voice is too loud, he turns.

Jack turns as well. Around them, the forest stretches, fog-drenched and empty. Still like the halls of an abandoned church, vines wrapped around crumbling marble and moss crawling the steps leading up to a forgotten altar. “The wind, Will.”

But Will isn’t listening, he’s reaching for the flashlight tucked against his side.

With a quick move, Jack grabs his wrist and Will turns, looks at him. Wide eyes, open mouth. The warmth of his wrist bleeds through Jack’s glove. He’s running hot.

“You heard the wind rustling through the leaves, Will. Come on.” Jack says, pitching his voice low, comforting. 

Will still looks spooked, but he heard him, this time. For a second, Jack wonders whether they took him out of the classroom too early. Nights of electric light and the scent of ink replaced by this, moonshine and fog. A feverish, overworked mind drunk on the memories of blood.

“No flashlight,” he says, gentle. “Your eyes have to get used to the darkness, alright? You’ll blind yourself otherwise. And then we’ll both stumble over some roots or branches and sprain our ankles, and what headline’s Lounds going to make out of that one, hm?” He offers a little smile that Will doesn’t quite return. But he looks calmer, at least. Jack drops his wrist and pats his back, using the touch to steer him into the right direction.

_The endless dance of predator and prey. A voice, gentle and silver-light. Will is acutely aware of the warmth of his own blood, thrumming through his veins. His head hurts, rose bushes and a whisper against his throat._

_The promise of a chase. His feet slipping on the soft-black forest floor, branches snapping. His heart in his throat, rabbit-fast. Eyes, used to the darkness, shimmering in the moonlight. The promise of torn skin and twitching limbs, sharp teeth. Heat, blood under his fingernails. A warm body struggling against him, blood and skin, warmth and fangs._

_“Don’t you want to dance with me?”_

_Growls, the soft forest floor against his back. He’s looking up at the velvet sky with pain and heat seeping through him. A cloak of darkness and fog and a crown of antlers, of blackberries and bone. He can’t move, can’t push the creature off. His hands fist helplessly in darkness, he arches his back._

_He’s holding himself up on his forearms, pushing down, his teeth sunk into a soft throat. Blood and saliva drip from his chin, the scent of metal and salt overpower the rich-dark scent of the forest floor. A warm body under his and hands like branches, tangling in his hair._

Will makes a soft sound and Jack gives him a concerned look. In the moonlight, his big eyes seem to gleam.  
“Do you- Jack, there’s blood on the trees.” His voice is breathless. “Can’t you smell it?”

Jack looks up, looks at the trees. Tall and slim like columns, gleaming in the darkness.  
“It’s rain and dew, Will. Rain and dew on the willows and the scent of the forest. Spores. Come on, let’s get you home.” He’s slightly concerned. No reason to worry, but reason enough to walks a little faster. 

Will is dressed appropriately for the weather, there’s no need to worry about him catching something out here, a cold or a fever. Not a man like him, who walks his pack of strays at night and spends his free mornings wading through cool streams. 

Jack quickens his steps and thinks of the glow of a laptop screen, the quiet snuffles and silent huffs of a pile of sleeping dogs. No time to feel guilty. He tore Will out of his living room, away from the scent of motor oil seeping into the carpet and the crackling warmth of his fireplace for a good cause. The cold won’t harm him. 

But maybe he was sick before.

_Will can’t move. Pomegranate juice dripping from his lashes, the scent of the night seeping into his nostrils. His blood thrumming through his veins, his vision clouded. Fog and antlers and claws on his arm, thorns in his hair._

_He’s pushing, pulling, hands sinking into dark robes. Whenever he moves, the night wraps tighter around him and every breath he draws tastes of blackberries and resin._

_Claws digging into his arm, thorns pulling at his curls. A kiss that splits his lip._

_”And if thou'rt unwilling, then force I'll employ.”_

Maybe he was sick before. 

Jack turns when he hears him stumble, the crack of breaking twigs under his boots. The blackberry bushes tear at his curls, his jacket, and for a moment, it looks like they won’t let him go. Jack rushes to him, but just then the tendrils break their hold and Will stumbles ahead, into Jack’s arms.

His curls stick to his forehead with sweat and his eyes are feverish-bright. The shadows of his lashes look like spider legs on his pale cheeks and blood spills from a cut in his lip, gleaming black.

Jack swallows. He’s worried. Slightly worried. There’s no time to waste. Will is feverish, confused, and pulls back from Jack with a soft sound. He stumbles back, almost back into the blackberries, until Jack takes him by his arm and hauls him up, shoves him into the direction they need to go. 

No time to waste. He looks left, looks right. Urges Will on, takes to sprinting himself. They have to get out of the forest. His boots slip over wet floors. The night closes in on him, on Will. He reaches for the gun by his side, clocks it. You can’t shoot a fever, can’t shoot hallucinations. The wind rustles in the willows, dew drips from gleaming-black bark. He speeds his step. Behind him, he hears Will’s footsteps, branches crunching, snapping under his boots. The wind rustling through dead leaves.

He looks behind himself. He’s alone.

-

_Blackberry bushes wrap around his ankles. He feels the pain where thorns dig into his skin, he tastes their sweetness on his tongue. The creature leans in, cool fingertips brushing over his cheekbone, slipping greedily over Will’s chest, sharp nails snagging the fabric. Hands with delicate bones, moonlight on bare skin._

_Heat and sharp teeth. Will writhes. Claws on his thighs, a hungry growl against his throat. His fingers slip through soft hair. Feathers tickling against his palm, his fingertips brush where antlers break skin. He moans at the growl it earns him._

_Amber eyes, thorns. Silver leaves, heat and bones. He can’t think, can barely talk, but words brush against a soft, mauled mouth._

_“Won’t you ask me for my name?” The old rules, the old pacts. Don’t step into a fairy ring, don’t look back on a fork on the road, don’t let them know what to call you. Blood on a dotted line, golden shackles. Pomegranate seeds and a splitting skull._

_A smile dripping in blood and pomegranate juice, a voice like the wind in alder leaves. “Won’t you say mine?”_

_And there’s a promise in that, a promise of gold and rubies and wine, of devotion. Will lets his mouth fall open for a kiss, licks it from his lips. Salt and honey. Fangs against his tongue._

_He digs his fingers into shadow-clad shoulders, pulls the creature in, shadows and thorns and a plum-sweet pain searing through him. The nightmare fills him but he sinks his claws into it, darkness and skin. His head tips back, his lashes flutter._

_Pleasure rushes through him like blood, drips from his chin. His skull splits. He can feel blackberries tangling in his curls, entwining with his thoughts. Around him, the night coils and writhes, wine and pomegranate seeds, the creature presses close, sighs against his neck, teeth and tongue hot on his throat._

_Moon-pale skin and amber eyes, delicate claws, dripping fangs. Will moans, splintering bones, his limbs heavy with pleasure, sweet red wine. A tongue in his mouth, a hand on his throat, darkness pushing into him until he chokes on it. He arches his back, presses in, fangs and claws._

_Finally, they slip, twist, pushing, pulling, pleasure burning and foaming through Will’s veins. His vision blurs, shatters, lashes fluttering, the nightmare hot and sweet in him, pomegranates and resin._

_Kiss-split lips sharing breath and fog, then Will dares to open his eyes. There’s dirt under his fingernails, blackberry juice dripping from his chin. Warm arms wrap around him and shadows seep from his hair, curl around his shoulders. His head is heavy with a bone-pale crown and around him, the night looks strange and alive._

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly: thank you so much for reading!!!
> 
> I've had this idea stuck in my head for ages and I'm so happy I finally got around to writing it. The whole idea is based on Goethe's poem Der Erlkönig (The Erlking). I followed the structure of the poem (more or less) and played around with the elements of the text. You can find a literal and poetic translation of the poem in the wiki article under [text](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erlk%C3%B6nig_\(Goethe\)). It's one of my all-time favourite poems, I highly recommend it :')
> 
> The title of this fic - "In his arms" - refers to the last line of the poem, of course. To illustrate my thought process: "in his arms" = sensual connotation // "in seinen Armen, das Kind war tot" = connotations of death and violence // petite mort = connotations of both violence and sensuality. Something like that. 
> 
> Apart from that, the last little bit about their names was just a general hint at the Fae lore of them owning you if you tell them your name and vice versa. I adore the concept of Will and Hannibal being intertwined, devoted to each other (for better of worse). Will asking about this ritual and Hannibal basically revealing that Will already owns him is just...a concept. Aditionally, the boy in the poem for some reason knows the Erlking, so you could also just read it as a reference to that.  
> ........on that note - "Erlkönig" doesn't translate to "Elf king" as the article states. If I'm not mistaken, Goethe read the name in a book of translated fairy tales, where it was *supposed* to be translated into Elf king ("Elfenkönig), but for some reason the translation sad "Erlkönig". Something along those lines. So the name is a bit of a neologism? A mistake? A wrong translation Goethe found interesting? "Erle" is german for alder tree.
> 
> Additionally - this might be obvious by now but I just want to admit once again that I'm not a native speaker and I'm very sorry for any grammatical errors!!
> 
> And finally, lastly.....it's late and I must've reread that last sequence about 200 times...Will got turned, yes? please tell me if that was obvious or at least understandable. if that made sense. If any of this made sense, honestly. I feel like the words are just spinning endlessly in my head.
> 
> That's all! Thank you again for reading! I hope you enjoyed it and now go on to have a nice night :) 
> 
> (&you can find me on [tumblr](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/) if you'd like)


End file.
